


Let the Poets Cry Themselves to Sleep

by graceling_in_a_suit



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Arranged Marriage, Figs, Louis is the god of figs, M/M, Romance, cw: blood, fairytale, harry is a regular ancient greek joe, the best combination of things, they make a deal y'know how it be with those cooky god types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 01:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15377316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceling_in_a_suit/pseuds/graceling_in_a_suit
Summary: “My dearest God of Figs, I devote myself to you. Please accept the offering of my flesh, my body, and my soul, and in return bless me with your fertility and… fig trees,” Harry said, at first confident and then a bumbling mess.“If you offer me your flesh, your body, and your soul, are you not offering me your hand in marriage?” Louis asked cheekily.Greek mythology AU. It's a fairytale with gods, husbands, and figs.





	Let the Poets Cry Themselves to Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a Wordplay prompt challenge that a group of us are participating in for the prompt "Unused". To read the amazing fics that were written by the others on this prompt, [click here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/unused/works), and to see all fics written as part of the challenge, [click here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/wordplay_fic_challenge/works) or find the masterpost for this year’s challenge here.
> 
> Title is from Poison Oak by Bright Eyes. 
> 
> Just so we're clear, Simon Cowell IS in this story. He's a skeleton in the eel infested lake. I didn't mention it in the fic because tHiS iS a FaMiLy ShOw. But I wanted to clarify that he is indeed dead in this story. Very dead. Thank you for your time.

                                                                  

There was someone on Louis’ island.

There hadn’t been anyone on Louis’ island in quite some time. So long that Louis had almost forgotten the sweetness of company, how it felt to think of the way someone moved against the Earth rather than only thinking of himself.

Louis awoke fully from his slumber. He was resting, as usual, beneath his favourite tree. It was the largest of the forest of fig trees that coated every inch of the small island he called his home—a solid weight, and a good friend.

Louis yawned and stretched, feeling the movements of the person who interrupted his lovely little afternoon nap.

It was a human, based on the way it was stumbling around trying to fasten it’s boat to a tree root so the sad little thing wouldn’t float away. Gods didn’t stumble about.

Louis had always liked humans.

He smiled to himself as he headed into his humble marble temple. The columns were carved with ornate designs, twisting floral motifs that Louis loved to run his fingers over. His altar sat in the centre, empty and barren.

Not a single offering had been made to him in his short three centuries of life.

A forgotten son of Hera on an island of fig trees; heroes and villains had better ways to spend their time, and no one else would dare brave the treacherous waters of the lake that separated him from land.

Except, it seemed, this very clumsy human.

Louis giggled to himself as he hid in the shadows of his temple, eyes closed and mapping the stranger’s movements through his connection to the trees, to the earth.

Finally, the human stumbled into the temple.

“Oh,” he said to himself, righting his posture and smoothing down his chiton. Louis observed him from his hiding spot, drinking in every feature.

That he was very steadily built was the first thing Louis noticed. Like a young lean boar, something that didn’t know its own strength. His hair flowed down around his face like water in a playful stream, curling around his shoulders and nape. He was a contrast of delicacy and sturdiness. His sandals were worn and dirty, no doubt sullied by the trip here, and there was a strange determination that seemed to ooze from his very being.

“I humbly ask permission to enter your temple, Lord,” he mumbled out quickly, bowing his head. Louis didn’t respond. This had been far too interesting to justify interrupting just yet.

The mortal waited patiently for a few moments, then let out a deep sigh.

“Of course not,” he muttered to himself. He took a step further into the temple cautiously, then another, and another. He approached the altar like you would the throne of a beloved king: reverent and awed.

He smoothed a large, worn hand over its surface, and Louis almost shivered. Then, he kneeled.

Louis’ eyebrows rose. No mortal had ever knelt for him before. No God, either. His life thus far had been content, to be sure, but his soul had yearned for followers like his brothers and sisters had, people to love him and respect him, people he could shower in gifts and blessings, to spoil in return for their devotion.

But he’d been a foolish boy, once, and he’d let a mortal liken his beauty to that of Aphrodite a little too loudly, a little too close to Olympus. And so he’d been deposited on an island surrounded by eel-infested waters with only this sad, unused temple and his beloved fig trees for company.

The boy spoke. His voice was rich and deep, so lovely on Louis’ lonesome ears.

“My dearest God of Figs, I devote myself to you. Please accept the offering of my flesh, my body, and my soul, and in return bless me with your fertility and… fig trees,” He said, at first confident and then a bumbling mess.

Louis watched, horrified, as he removed a knife from a sheath on his waist and dragged it across his palm with only a wince to show for it. His blood spilled from the cut onto Louis’ pure, untouched altar. The first drop of rain after a drought, perhaps.

Or, this fucking mortal was bleeding all over his nice clean things.

“If you offer me your flesh, your body, and your soul, are you not offering me your hand in marriage?” Louis asked cheekily, stepping into the light.

The mortal’s eyes snapped up, travelling down Louis’ body in a way that should not have felt so much like a caress.

He was still bleeding all over Louis’ altar.

Louis sighed impatiently. He bent over and ripped a strip of linen from his chiton, approaching the boy. He hadn’t said anything yet, eyes wide in shock from being in the presence of a God.

If it weren’t so sad that Louis was being deprived of his wonderful voice, he might have felt flattered.

“Here, you’ve proved your devotion to me adequately enough I think, _philkitaton_.” Louis took his hand and wrapped the cloth around the cut, tying it securely to stop the bleeding. “You needn’t bleed for me. I will give you what you wish.”

The boy exhaled a breath of relief. “To ask for your hand in marriage upon first meeting would be the height of presumption, _chrýsion_ ,” he replied, a twist to his mouth and a glint in his eye.

 _Ah,_ Louis thought, delighted. _He’s cheeky._

Louis leant over the altar, lowering himself to rest on his elbows so he was eye to eye with this curious boy. “And yet you haven’t denied that’s what you’ve done, oh nameless mortal.” He raised his eyebrows.

The mortal shook his head with a grin. “My name is Harry.” Then, his face saddened. “I’m here to beg for your help, my Lord,” he said. “My family owns a fig orchard, and the past few winters have been hard on us. We need this year’s harvest to be plentiful, or I’m afraid we’ll all starve. I heard tale of your temple, hidden away on this island, and of your generosity and beauty.” He looked up at Louis with a disgustingly hopeful expression on his face, green eyes wide and lips pinker than they had any right to be.

Louis tutted. This was exactly what he’d been worried about, trapped on his island and unable to ensure his very purpose was being carried out. His wonderful friends were dying, and he was taking naps.

“And you offer yourself in exchange for my help, little one?” Louis asked kindly. He looked between Harry’s eyes, as green as the leaves that adorned Louis’ head. “What makes you think that I am interested in taking a mortal like yourself for a husband?”

Louis was just teasing him, now. He’d known he would provide whatever this boy required of him the second he’d taken to his knees.

But Harry set his jaw, rising to the challenge. “I’ll make a great husband for you, _chrýsion_. I’ll cook for you every day, and I’ll dote on you the way you deserve, and you’ll never want for a thing that I can’t provide. If, I mean,” he trailed off, the fire leaving him. “If you accept, and agree to give my family’s orchard your blessing.”

Louis let him sit in his anxiety for a moment, taking the time to send his goodbyes across the island, give his love to every leaf on every tree.

Then, he lifted his hand to Harry’s face, catching his cheek and holding him securely even as he flinched away.

“I accept, _philkitaton_ .” He leant forwards and brushed his lips against the boys once, just a soft press of mouths to seal the deal. “But I think you’ll find it’s _you_ who will want for nothing as my husband.”

The blush that coated Harry’s cheeks when Louis pulled back was sweeter than a baby’s first steps.

“Did we… Is that it?” he asked excitedly, rising from his kneeling position and holding a disbelieving hand to his mouth. “Are we really married? You’re really going to save my family?”

Louis rounded the alter swiftly. After centuries of imprisonment, he was more than ready to leave this sad, empty place. Aphrodite would not come between him and freedom, if she knew he had left to be with his husband. There was nothing she respected more than love.

He looked over his shoulder as he reached the edge of his temple, one foot pressed to the grass below. "Well?" he said to Harry's frozen, captivated face. "Are you coming, husband?"

Harry seemed to shake himself off like a wolf in a stream, a wondrous grin spreading across his face. Then, he nodded.

He followed Louis out of the temple. 

 

                                                                                                            

 

The journey to Harry’s home took only three days and two nights. Louis did his best not to complain, but… He wasn’t used to walking for so long, and his feet hurt. It was worth it, though, for the way Harry would roll his eyes every time and tease him about being a terrible God. 

“Do you want to have a rest?” he would then ask, sincere and caring. 

And Louis would accept, of course, and they would sit by the road and eat the soft cheeses, bread and grapes Harry had packed for the journey while Harry rubbed his sore feet and soothed his aching bones. 

“You’re going to love my family,” Harry said, once they were nearing his home. Louis could see the beginnings of a fig orchard in the distance, sad and wisened trees dotting the landscape. Already, he could feel their pain through the soil. All they needed was some love and care, really. It would only take Louis a week to ensure they would bare plentiful fruit for the rest of Harry’s life. 

But, well. Then what would he do to pass the time, go back to his lonely island? 

“Did they approve of your idiotic plan to save them by offering your very soul in exchange?” Louis asked. There was something about the way Harry hadn’t hesitated to bleed for his help, hadn’t hesitated to do whatever Louis asked, that itched under his skin like an insect bite after a long day in the sun.

Harry paused. “No,” he answered honestly. “But they can’t object anymore, not when it _worked.”_

Louis threw him a glance. “Hasn’t worked yet, _philkitaton_.”

Harry smiled back at him, open and trusting and so very young. “I have faith.”

And faith he was rewarded for. 

Louis spent large chunks of his time with Harry out in the orchards, singing to the trees and ripening their fruits until Harry’s family could boast the sweetest, juiciest figs in all the state. In all of Greece, undoubtedly.  
  
Harry’s family had been cold to him, at first. His mother and his sister and his aunts and uncles had avoided Louis like beetles exposed to light. It was strange, to see humans react to his Godliness with fear and caution rather than awe. It wasn’t like he could _hurt_ them, not really.  
  
He was only the fucking God of Figs.

After a few months of Louis and Harry living together in an awkward sort of happiness, they seemed to warm up to him. 

Harry, on the other hand. If he got any warmer towards Louis, he would burn himself alive. 

They lived together in their own little house—more of a shack, really, but Harry worked hard to make it nice for them both. It was a lot smaller than his island, but it didn’t take very long for Louis to feel at home.

Every day, he talked to the fig trees. And every night, he curled against Harry’s back, nose pressed to his hair, and hand over his beating heart.   
  
Harry had seemed more than content with the arrangement, but lately he had been withdrawing, sending Louis searching glances. The harvest was over, his family was rolling in excess coin. Louis wondered what more Harry could have to be disappointed about.

“It’s because you haven’t consummated your marriage yet, dear,” Anne said to Louis sternly. Louis almost choked from where he was stood at the stove in the main house’s kitchen, stirring a pot of jam. 

He looked at Anne with wide eyes, then his shoulders relaxed. “Oh,” he laughed, turning back to the jam. “Is that all?”

Anne whacked him with the linen she was repairing—one of Gemma’s dresses that had been torn.“If you’re any sort of God, you’ll get out of my kitchen before I forsake my loyalty to you,” she sniffed.  
  
Louis laughed fondly. He was glad they’d gotten to a point where they could joke about these things.

Louis left, as commanded. He asked his fig trees where Harry was, and received a prompt reply. 

_Sulking by the river._

Louis patted one on the trunk as he headed over to the river, running his fingers over another’s bark fondly. 

The trees rustled their leaves for him. 

They hadn’t been exaggerating, it turned out. When Louis found Harry, he was bathing moodily in the shallows, glaring at the riverbed.

“You know, my love,” Louis began, leaning against a tree. It wasn’t one of his, but he didn’t begrudge it that. “If you ever should want for something, you need only ask.”

Harry turned to him with a guilty look on his face. “Um.”

Louis laughed softly. He pulled his chiton off effortlessly, leaving it on Harry’s own abandoned clothes and taking a step into the river. Harry’s eyes followed him hungrily, cautiously. 

“I may be a God, _philkitaton_ , but I’m also your husband,” Louis continued, stopping about a metre away from Harry. The water came up to his stomach, lapping softly at his skin in a sort of friendly greeting. “As a child of Hera, I might be able to read your thoughts. But as a husband, I most certainly cannot.”

Harry snorted out a laugh, bringing a hand up to his face to hide behind. “Stop, I’m sorry,” he mumbled through his fingers. “It’s just…” He peeked out, eyes skittering about Louis but never quite landing on him. “You are so exquisitely beautiful, _chrýsion_ , and every moment we spend together is a gift. Why should I ask for more? Should I not be content with what you already give me?”

Louis sighed. He tangled his fingers in Harry’s, pulling them away from his face. “But how can you know what I’ll give you, if you don’t ask?”

Harry gulped. He clutched Louis’ fingers. “Would you… lie with me? The way husbands do?”

Louis looked up at him through his eyelashes. “I would lie with you for the rest of our lives, my love.”

Harry’s face pinched, eyes wet. “But our lives… Mine is so short, compared to yours, you’ll… want to leave me, won’t you?”

Louis pursed his lips. It occurred to him that he’d been an awful husband, to not have told Harry from the very first week of being his that he never intended to go back. 

“I am your Lord, your God, your King,” Louis declared. Harry nodded: it was the truth. “My word is final, and you aren’t entitled to argue. I am going to spend the rest of your life with you, by your side, providing for you as you do me.”

Harry’s tears finally broke free. He stood there, waist deep in the river, crying and clinging to Louis. After a long moment of Louis cooing softly to him, stroking his back and pressing soft kisses to his hair, he spoke. His voice was scratchy from tears, but still so lovely and warm, teasing. “As you command, my Lord.” 

 

                                                                                                             

 

And so they lived together, intertwined like the roots of two neighbouring trees. Harry’s family’s orchard continued to grow, and they hired more workers from the village to help during harvest season. Their figs were well-renowned across all of Greece; so famed that the senate at Athens frequently requested some for their many, many banquets. Harry and Louis became known for their compassion and the strength of their love; abandoned children from all around found their way to them, looking for a home and a person to care for them. 

They found both, in Harry and Louis. 

It was years thereafter that Harry first noticed. He pulled Louis aside, studying his face in the soft morning sunlight as they prepared breakfast. 

“ _Chrýsion_ ,” he breathed, thumbing the crow’s feet by Louis’ eyes, the wrinkles slowly carving themselves into his skin. Louis brought his fingers up to gently caress the matching wrinkles on Harry’s face, smiling sadly. “What did you _do_?”

“I kept my promise, _philkitaton_. I’m _keeping_ my promise.”

Harry pressed a loving kiss to his lips, then to each of his closed eyes. 

“My Lord,” he said, nosing into Louis’ neck. “I could not have been more blessed.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Based on my very thorough and utterly exhaustive research, philkitaton is an Ancient Greek endearment that means 'sweet thing', and chrýsion means 'my golden one'. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are like love blood that wonderful readers like you inject into my hollow veins, so. Hope that doesn't dissuade you from leaving one. Also there's a post over on my [tumblr](http://graceling-in-a-suit.tumblr.com/post/176207099160/let-the-poets-cry-themselves-to-sleep-by) if you wanna chuck that a reblog :) xx


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